


Follow My Voice

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's voice is all John has.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(I did my best, but this almost certainly includes Hollywood Medical Science. Sorry!)</p>
<p>Betaed by the awesome Mazarin221b.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow My Voice

There is a familiar voice.

It fades, and there is nothing.

 

The nothing seems to last forever, and yet it also feels like only seconds have passed when the voice comes back. It fills the void. 

It has a lot to say, most of it in a frustrated tone that is as recognisable as the voice itself.

When it goes, it takes all awareness with it.

 

The return of the voice brings an awareness that he is not the voice, that he is different and distinct from it. He has his own identity, although he does not know what that might be. Perhaps the voice will know. He latches on to it and pulls himself towards it as if moving along a rope. 

As he struggles forwards, the voice becomes clearer. He starts to realise he can differentiate between words. They mean nothing to him, but he enjoys the sound of them anyway. This voice makes them beautiful.

When it leaves, it is like sinking underwater, back into darkness. He finds a thought forming, slowly coming together in the midst of the void.

_It will come back again._

It is a comforting thought.

 

It does come back, accompanied by a faint pressure on a part of himself that he hasn't felt before. For the briefest of moments, there is more than just _here_ where his thoughts are, and _there_ where the voice comes from. There is also _that_ , something connected to his thoughts so that he can feel it, but somehow separate. 

The pressure ends and he loses contact with that part of himself. The loss is upsetting.

The voice is speaking quickly. The sounds are blurring together so that it's more difficult to separate out words than it had been. That's okay; he is content just to listen.

After a while, he makes out a syllable that is repeated often.

_John._

It is as familiar as the voice – more so, even. The voice is silent for a moment, than says something short that ends with that syllable, and he has a revelation.

_John is me._

It is something to hold on to when the voice goes again.

 

John loses count of how often the voice comes and goes. Sometimes he finds it hard to concentrate on it, hearing it as if through a long tube, muffled and distorted. Other times, he can clearly make out every time it says his name. 

The voice says his name a lot. He hopes that means that he's important to it, and so it will keep returning.

The return of the voice is often accompanied by that moment of pressure, a brief flash of sensation from an otherwise dead part of him. He hoards the feel of it as something precious.

The voice has many different tones. John likes it best when it is quick and excited, falling over itself to get the words out and using his name as if it's an exclamation mark. More often, though, it is suffused with frustration, or tired and resigned. There is one time when he feels the touch, but then there is silence, broken only by an occasional, pleading version of his name. It makes him think there is something he should be doing, some way he should be repaying the voice for its presence, but he can do nothing but listen.

 

The voice is slow and punctuated by periods of silence on the day that John realises it's not the only sound he can hear. Behind the voice comes a slow, steady beeping that continues even when the voice is quiet. For the first time he is distracted from the voice, listening to the pace of the beeps instead. He almost misses it when there is a rustle – another new sound - and the voice says, “Goodbye, John.”

_Goodbye._ He recognises that word.

The voice does not speak again, and eventually the beeping fades as well.

 

The beeping returns when John next feels the moment of pressure.

“John,” says the voice, and John puts all his energy into concentrating on it, disregarding the beeps. They're not as important as the voice; he's not sure anything is. 

He's recognised two words now – surely he can manage more, if he just tries hard enough?

It's difficult. The voice is quick today, as if it is running against a clock. John concentrates, and manages to isolate several other words that he recognises. Each one feels like a jewel.

_Boring._

_Blue._

_Appeared._

_Irrelevant._

It isn't enough to decipher any real meaning, but it's a start. John has something to build towards now.

 

It takes a long time – in as much as John can measure time in the nothingness of his existence – before he understands a complete sentence. Even when he does, he still doesn't entirely understand what the voice is talking about, but there is a thrill of satisfaction anyway.

_It's not as if she even liked that teapot._

Teapot. An image flows into John's head: a tray with a teapot, two cups and a plate of biscuits. The teapot is rather ugly.

_He broke it_ , he thinks, but he can't explain where the thought comes from. It's just that he seems to associate the voice with the destruction of property.

 

As his comprehension grows, he realises that a short phrase is repeated almost as much as his name.

_Wake up._

It comes at all points in the flow of words: on its own as a plea, buried in sentences that otherwise have nothing to do with sleep, as a pair with his name.

_I am awake,_ he thinks, then wonders if that's true. Was there more to being awake than his current existence?

He wonders, after the voice has gone and he is falling back into himself, if the voice is aware that he is more awake when it speaks than he is the rest of the time. He may be able to hear the beeping now, but he can never hold on to it to keep himself out of the void in the same way that he can the voice. He loses the thought before he can hope that the voice knows how important it is to him.

 

The moment of pressure. _Touch,_ John realises. As if struggling through a thick fog, the memory of being touched comes to him. It remains hazy, but it's enough to place the sensation as that of someone squeezing some part of him. 

Someone. A person. There are people outside of himself. People who can touch and feel and interact with him through more than just speech - through actual, physical connection. The thought is stunning.

And if there is more to the existence of others than their voices, does that mean there is more to John than his current state? Should he be able to touch and speak as well as just exist?

The touch vanishes but the voice remains, and John realises that the two must be connected.

The owner of the voice is the one touching him.

The idea that the voice must be attached to a person is more than stunning; it is devastating.

“Good evening, John.”

_The voice must have a name,_ thinks John. _I have one, so the owner of the voice must as well._ He has no idea what it might be, or even if he has ever known it.

Instead of more words from the voice, there comes music. Something slow and haunting, soaring up high and then descending to a tripping series of notes. John feels as if he is being bathed in it, surrounded on all sides by melody in a way that seems achingly familiar, and yet this is the first time he can ever remember hearing music.

When it ends, he is so disappointed that it feels like a physical pain.

“Good night, John,” says the voice, and he is alone again.

 

He decides that he really doesn't like being alone. He wants to follow the voice to wherever it goes when it is not with him. He wants to get back the part of himself that can feel and touch and interact with others. He has no idea how to even respond to the voice with more than his whole-hearted attention, though. Outside the narrow sphere of the place where his thoughts are, he can do nothing. Even his thoughts are sometimes too slow and heavy for him to manage more than one or two before he is exhausted.

 

The voice is not alone.

The touch is quicker than usual, and harder. “Hello, John.”

And then there is a second voice, one that sounds exasperated. John can't make out its words like he can those of the first voice; the one he thinks of as his voice with a possessive thrill. He suddenly hates this other voice for being in the same place as his voice, able to respond and interact with the owner of it.

He wants to be able to do that himself. _Please don't leave me for this new voice,_ he thinks desperately.

“Yes, it is necessary. It is six o'clock. I am always here at six o'clock,” says his voice. It speaks in short, clipped sentences that John finds easy to understand.

The new voice says something else, something tired and pained.

“Half an hour,” says his voice. “Then you may have your statement.”

The second voice says something else, then there is a noise John doesn't recognise and it is gone.

The touch comes again, firmer and lingering. “Some things are more important than procedure,” says his voice, and it sounds as if it is finally talking to John rather than this new interloper.

There is a rustle of cloth, and then the voice starts into a story. John loses track of it very quickly, somewhere between _inexcusable incompetence_ and _footprint in blood on the carpet_. It doesn't matter. It isn't really the meaning he wants, it's the sound of words, swirling through the empty place he inhabits and filling it with more than silence.

Time passes, and the second voice comes back. This time when it speaks, John recognises a single word of what it says.

_Sherlock._

The word shoots through his mind like a comet, sending out sparks and lighting up his thoughts. _Sherlock._ That's the voice's name – of course it is! How could John have forgotten? Sherlock.

“Yes, yes, coming,” says Sherlock testily, and for the first time since the teapot incident John is able to summon up an image in his mind, indistinct and distorted but definitely there. It's a tall figure wearing something long and black, with a pale blur of a face and a mass of dark curls. Sherlock. John knows him.

“Goodbye, John,” says Sherlock, then there is a scrape and the noise John hadn't recognised before, although he does now. It's a door shutting. Both Sherlock and the second voice have left.

They have left him with a lot more than he had before. A name, and a memory of whom it belongs to. He revels in both, running them through his mind in the hope that he will be able to attach more to them if he just tries hard enough. There is nothing more concrete than a feeling of mingled affection and excitement, but it's enough to make John want to smile.

He'd forgotten smiling. How had he used to do it? He's sure it used to be easy, but now it's as if the necessary connections are severed. Too much ends with him feeling that way now.

 

He starts to be aware of the muffled sounds of other people moving around and talking, even when Sherlock isn't there. He can never make out any details, although he lacks the energy to really try. Sometimes it seems as if he is trapped behind a thick wall, separating him and the rest of the world. Sherlock is the only one that can open a door in it and even then, it's nothing more than a crack. Still, it's a crack that's getting wider. Maybe one day he'll be able to reach back through it to everything outside himself, and get back the things he's lost.

 

He begins to be able to understand most of Sherlock's stories, enough to realise that they cover what he's done since he last spoke to John. Some of the things he mentions start to prompt other images in John's head. _Washing machine. Book. Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. Ambulance._ He can see these things now, although rarely with any context and often without a great deal of detail.

The day Sherlock says, “Dimmock wouldn't listen to me – interacting with idiots like him will be much easier when you wake up and are able to do it for me - so I went home to run some tests on the residue,” and John knows that _home_ is a cluttered flat that he used to share with Sherlock and that he wants to get back to more than anything, an electric thrill of satisfaction runs through him. He is getting ever closer to having all the pieces of his life, to being able to put it all together to form a cohesive whole.

Sherlock cuts off what he is saying halfway through a sentence. “John?” he says, and there's the sound of movement, followed by the sensation of touch. “John, can you hear me?”

_Of course I can,_ thinks John, and then, _Why would you be talking to me if you didn't think I could hear you?_

“Do that again, John,” commands Sherlock. “You moved your fingers, I'm sure of it. Do it again.”

_Fingers,_ thinks John. Fingers are on hands. That's what Sherlock is touching, where the sensation is coming from.

“Please, John,” says Sherlock, his tone shifting to pleading. John thinks he preferred being commanded. “Prove that you're still there.”

John wants to. God, he wants to so much! He just can't. Whatever he had done at the thought of _home_ he's unable to summon it up on demand. He concentrates as hard as he can on the feel of Sherlock's hand against his and tries to move it, but there is nothing. The connection is dead again.

Sherlock lets out a sigh and the feel of his touch disappears. “I hope you realise that this whole thing just smacks of laziness,” he says harshly.

He is silent for a long time, during which John keeps trying to move, to do anything that will convey that he is still here and doing the best he can to get himself back completely. Without Sherlock's touch, though, he's not even sure he can tell where his hand is, let alone move it.

There's a flurry of movement. “Goodbye, John,” says Sherlock. “I'll see you tomorrow.” He goes, leaving John still frustratedly trying to break through the barrier he is trapped behind.

 

Sherlock's visits grow quieter after that. Increasingly often, he does nothing more than greet John and then launch into music. John enjoys the music, especially now that he can remember what Sherlock looks like with his violin tucked under his chin, but he misses the updates on what Sherlock has been doing.

One day, Sherlock comes in, touches John's hand as usual and says, “Hello, John,” in a subdued voice, then is silent for so long that John begins to wonder if he hasn't already left without saying anything.

“It's a year today,” Sherlock says eventually. His voice is quiet and tired – so tired that John aches with it. “A whole year, with nothing to show for it.” He is silent again. Time passes in which John strains for him, and wishes he could reach out with more than his senses.

When Sherlock finally speaks, it's in a half-voice that John can only just hear. “I'm not sure I can keep doing this,” he confesses. John feels a shudder of horror at the idea that one day Sherlock might go away and never come back. He's the only thing John has, the only part of his world that isn't darkness and frustration. Without Sherlock's visits, he's not sure he wouldn't just sink back down into the void and never be able to escape it.

“Everyone else gave up long ago – they don't say it, but it's easy to tell. Mrs. Hudson even mentioned clearing out your room, although I believe my reaction was enough to wipe the idea from her head.”

There is a rustle, then Sherlock is touching John's hand again. John wants to cling to it, but he can do nothing but listen.

“Of course, the idea of just walking away from you is impossible as well. I went through nine months of hell to get back to you after Moriarty – how can I give up on you now? 

“This is harder than that was. At least there were things to do to help then – the sort of things I excel at – brainwork and catching people out, tangible things. This, this is all _emotions_. Endless emotions, John, how have you done this to me? The machinery of my mind is filled with so much grit that it can barely function. Yesterday, there was a witness with eyes the same shade of blue as yours, and I was so distracted by the memory of them after so long looking at nothing but your eyelids, that it took me twenty-seven seconds to realise the wear on his boots was inconsistent with his story. Twenty-seven seconds! I might as well be a member of Scotland Yard.”

Sherlock lets out a long breath, as if trying to calm himself down at the prospect of that.

“You need to get a move on and wake up, John,” he says. “This is _boring_ now.”

He is silent for a long time, so long that John might have thought he had gone if it wasn't for the persistent pressure of his hand on John's. Without his voice, John feels himself starting to drift away, the steady beeping in the background fading to a muffled sound that he is barely aware of. When Sherlock finally speaks, John can barely hear it.

“Goodbye, John.” 

The touch of his hand sharpens to a squeeze, then is gone. 

John spends a long time running over the memory of Sherlock's voice, trying to tell if there was something more final about his goodbye than there usually is, but it's impossible to tell. What will he do if Sherlock never comes back? What if he's stuck like this forever, with nothing but the occasional moment of muffled beeping or an indistinct voice breaking into the void he inhabits?

The thought is so terrifying that he deliberately shuts it away, letting himself sink down into the place where there is nothing. Sherlock will come back and pull him out of it. He has to believe that.

 

Sherlock does return, to John's immense relief. He continues to keep John updated on his day-to-day activities, or details the results of one of his experiments, or plays tunes that are beginning to sound familiar on his violin. There is a defeated note in the tone of his voice, though, a way of telling stories that makes it seem less like he's telling John, and more as if he's just talking to fill the silence.

The most notable change is that he stops asking John to wake up.

 

There are the distant sounds of strangers talking and an occasional impact, as if someone is thumping on the wall that keeps John separated from the rest of the world. John listens in a half-hearted manner, floating in the middle of the darkness. None of it seems interesting enough to be worth trying to hear, at least not until he hears Sherlock's voice. He reaches for it in time to hear the end of his sentence.

“-you doing?”

John can't get a enough of a handle on the response to understand it, but it sounds placating.

“I know what an EEG is,” snaps Sherlock. “I wasn't aware you were continuing to do them on John.”

There is another response, which John doesn't catch either. EEG, he thinks. Did he used to know what one of those was? The information feels as if it's hovering just out of his reach and he tries to grab for it, without success.

“I see,” says Sherlock, although he doesn't sound very happy about it. “Well, it's visiting hours now, I'm not leaving.”

There is more talk from the stranger and then the sound of the door.

Sherlock touches John's hand. “Good evening, John,” he says. Apparently Sherlock has been left alone with John, which is a relief. “I must say, I think I prefer you without the electrodes.”

Electrodes. John tries to place that one and comes up with a vague memory of something white that's attached to a wire.

“Let's see,” says Sherlock. “Yesterday evening I told you that I was going to spend the rest of the night in the vault of the City And Suburban Bank. I should probably let you know how that went.”

He launches into an account of a night spent waiting for thieves to tunnel their way into the vault, culminating in a brief fight that John suspects he downplays the severity of.

“Would have been easier with you there, of course,” he finishes. “You were always very handy to have with me in a fight.”

John thinks he can remember that. The thrill of action, adrenalin flowing through him as he fought at Sherlock's side. How had he done that? How had he been able to break through and be a part of the world Sherlock was in?

There had been more than sound then, he thinks. He'd had more than images in his head – he'd been able to see Sherlock as he stood beside him. He searches for how he had used to do that. Eyes the same shade of blue as yours, Sherlock had said before. _Eyes._ How had he been able to use them?

The information doesn't come to him. Stretching for it leaves him exhausted, and he almost doesn't feel it when Sherlock touches his hand again.

“Eight o'clock. Time for me to leave, or risk that harridan of a nurse calling security. Good night, John.”

He leaves and John sinks back down into the darkness, wondering if he will ever manage to get back through to the world where things like seeing and responding come easily.

 

There is a different voice. It takes John a while to become aware of it. It sounds like being wrapped in a blanket, or taking the first sip from a cup of tea after a long day. It flows in and out, punctuated by pats of his hand. He knows it, he realises after a minute or two. He has heard this voice before, many times. He just can't remember where, or what it was saying then.

He focuses, trying to bring himself up to the place where he can hear - and understand - Sherlock's voice, but the distance seems too far. It's not until he hears Sherlock's name that he is able to tune in to the actual words.

“...that poor boy, he's been so upset – hiding it, of course, you know how he is, but it's not hard to see if you know him. He just wants you back, dear. Well, of course he does. The difference you made to his life – you should have known him when I first met him. So hard and cold and there was all that business with the drugs, not that I'm meant to know about that, and so very alone, and then there was you and he just blossomed, didn't he, dear? And now- well. Caring for people is never easy. Look at me and my sister – let me tell you, when I think of...”

The voice fades back into incomprehensibility. John feels comforted though, in some strange way. He's not the only one caring for Sherlock – there's someone out there who worries about him as well, and who is actually able to interact with him.

 

“... at which point I realised that of course the message would be in Italian, so I...” 

Sherlock has been talking extremely quickly for a while, but John has not only caught every word and understood it, but he has been able to summon mental images for most of them. He feels proud of himself and eager to prove that he can do more. If he has mastered listening and understanding, what comes next? Surely responding?

He gathers his concentration and tries, once more, to fathom out where his hand is so that he can make another attempt at moving his fingers. He wants Sherlock to know he's here.

The door opens, breaking his concentration before he can get any further than a vague geographic sense of where he should be looking for sensation.

Sherlock breaks off his story. “What are you doing here?” he asks, sounding intensely irritated.

The reply is in a smooth, even voice that pricks John's memory. The first word is 'Sherlock' but beyond that he can't put the sounds together into words. He can tell that the tone is condescending, though, and that makes him feel protective of Sherlock. _Piss off,_ he thinks. _Leave us alone. I want to hear the rest of the case._

“I spoke to John's doctor yesterday,” says Sherlock and he sounds even more aggravated, as if he's one step from throwing something at a wall. A vivid memory of Sherlock throwing something small and made of glass at a white wall comes to John and he immediately files it away to be examined later, once Sherlock is gone and he is alone again.

The reply to Sherlock is very slow and careful, as if the speaker is trying not to lose his temper. It's so slow in fact, that after a minute or two, John manages to tune in on it and start to decipher the words. He listens eagerly, hoping to work out what is being said and whether or not it's going to upset Sherlock and make him leave without revealing who the Italian note was from.

“...EEG results...asked him not to...get your hopes up.”

“Hope?” repeats Sherlock. There is more than just scorn in his voice, there is pain as well. John wishes that he was able to somehow protect him from the effect this voice is having on him. “I think we both know that hope is a waste of time in this situation, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft. That conjures an image, although it's a hazy one. A disapproving expression and an umbrella are all John can really grasp hold of before it vanishes again.

“...trying to tell you, Sherlock,” says Mycroft. John's ability to understand his words is growing stronger with every half-heard sentence. “There may yet be hope.” John loses the next few words, then catches, “...dedication that is helping him.”

“What?” asks Sherlock, and it lacks any bite of irritation at all. Instead, his voice is suffused with an emotion John hasn't heard since he became aware of his surroundings and that he would very much like to hear again, often. Perhaps Sherlock doesn't need protecting from Mycroft after all.

“Let me show you,” says Mycroft, and there is a rustle of paper. “Here are John's normal results. Here is the impact that Mrs. Hudson had on him, and here are his reactions when you are speaking to him.”

There is silence for a very long time, broken only by the occasional sound of paper and, of course, the eternal beeping.

“Oh,” says Sherlock eventually, an exhalation of pure realisation and joy. “Then he is improving, albeit invisibly.”

“Indeed,” said Mycroft. “Here, this section is...” he starts speaking too quickly for John to catch what he is saying, although he catches the occasional technical term that he thinks he used to know. He lets the flow of words spill over him, concentrating purely on Sherlock's reactions. 

Sherlock asks a handful of questions, but seems largely content to listen. At one point he reaches over and takes John's hand, squeezing it tightly. It is at roughly that moment that John realises the significance of the tiny thread of conversation that he has grasped. They are talking about him. Somehow they have managed to track that he is pulling himself back together and that Sherlock's voice is helping him do that. He wants to reach out to Sherlock in return, squeeze his hand back and tell him how grateful John is for his presence, for the way his voice cuts through the void and lets in the world that John still can't reach.

“Do they think he can hear me?” asks Sherlock after a long time.

“They aren't sure,” says Mycroft. There is a longer period of rustling paper, as if it is all being gathered back up together. “It seems likely, however.”

Sherlock's hand tightens on John's again. “Go away, Mycroft,” he says, but it lacks bite.

“Of course,” says Mycroft. There is the scrape of a chair. “Do let him know that I am hoping for his recovery.” The door closes.

“John,” says Sherlock in a rough, low voice, and there is more pressure on John's hand.

_His other hand,_ thinks John. Sherlock is clutching at John's hand with both of his.

“John, if you can hear me, you have to wake up. Please. Just keep fighting this, and come back to me. It's just hateful not having you with me.”

_I'm trying,_ John thinks. _Sherlock, I am trying as hard as I can._

 

Although it's hard for John to keep track of time passing, he's able to tell that Sherlock starts to visit him far more often, and for longer each time. He spends his visits clutching at John's arm and filling the air with words, as if that's all it'll take to get John to wake up properly.

Maybe it will be. Now that the gaps between Sherlock's visits are shorter, John finds himself staying nearer to the surface, able to take in more of the sounds that occur around him. He begins to recognise the muffled sounds of a nurse monitoring his condition, or of his doctor's occasional visits. Once or twice he's able to catch a word or two that's exchanged by them – medical words that he recalls using himself, although the context is still indistinct.

The voice that cares for Sherlock comes back, and with Sherlock there to interact with it, John is able to put a name and a face to it. Mrs. Hudson. Dear Mrs. Hudson, who always worried about the two of them far more than they deserved, and who brought them cakes and biscuits that Sherlock would always deign to eat, even when he was in the middle of a case.

When she leaves, she presses a kiss to John's forehead and he's able to recognise the sensation immediately. It gives him another place on his body that he is able to map and he realises that he has an awareness of the physical space he must occupy. It's a definite step forward.

When Mrs. Hudson has gone, Sherlock clutches at John's hand. “I hope you realise that you're upsetting her far more than I ever have with this,” he says. “After all, I only pretended to be dead for nine months – you've been hovering on the edge of it for nearly eighteen months.”

Eighteen months. That's a long time. A part of John's mind that he wasn't aware of before this opens up, and starts informing him of statistics and probabilities relating to patients who remain unconscious for long periods of time. None of it is particularly comforting, although he is glad to be able to put a word to his condition. Coma. It's not a good word.

“You have to wake up, John. Eighteen months is quite long enough,” continues Sherlock. “I know you're trying to, but you need to try harder. You're a man of action, after all, you can't possibly be happy like this. I can't imagine anything more unendingly dull than just lying in a hospital. Wake up, and then I'll take you chasing after criminals again. I'll find a case that involves running over the rooftops and a bit of a fight, and me being dazzlingly clever – all the things you like best.”

That sparks a memory. John can remember watching Sherlock leap between buildings and thinking that there was no way he would be able to follow, then proving himself wrong and the rush of exhilaration that followed.

Sherlock's hand squeezes as if startled. “John,” he says in rough voice. “John, you moved your fingers. Do it again. Please, John, I know you can do it.”

John hadn't realised he'd done anything, but he immediately concentrates all his attention on his fingers and wills them to move.

“Come on, John,” urges Sherlock. “Concentrate. I was talking about being on a case again, about us running together through the streets of London and the rush of adrenalin you get when you face down a murderer.”

John reaches deep down, remembering the exact feeling of making that leap across the roofs to land beside Sherlock, then channels the feeling into his body. His fingers move again and this time he feels it. His nerve endings light up with sensation as they twitch feebly in Sherlock's grip.

“John,” breaths Sherlock. “John, come on. Wake up.”

John puts every shred of effort he has into keeping up the movement. Slowly – so slowly! - he manages to curl his fingers around Sherlock's and apply the barest hint of pressure.

“John,” says Sherlock again, as if it is the only word he knows. “Yes, John, come on! I'm here, I'm right here. Come and join me.”

The effort of that tiny movement is too much for John and he abruptly loses all contact with the world outside himself, tumbling so far back down into the void that the nothing is all there is.

 

The next time he wakes up is like surfacing from deep water.

“...fingers yesterday, John, I know you can do it again. Just concentrate.”

Sherlock's voice sounds clearer than normal, as if John has finally managed to tune in to his precise frequency.

“Oh, fine then. Be lazy,” continues Sherlock. “You'll miss out on Mrs. Hudson's rock cakes, though – she's spent all morning baking things for her book club, but she decided the rock cakes weren't good enough for some reason, and gave them to me instead.”

Most likely she had intended them for Sherlock from the beginning, thinks John. He stretches out his awareness towards Sherlock, wondering if he knows how often Mrs Hudson's baking 'mistakes' are really just an attempt to get him to eat.

Instead of the darkness that has been John's constant companion for so long, there is suddenly blinding light. He makes a muffled sound and screws his eyes shut.

“John!” exclaims Sherlock.

John suddenly realises that he'd heard the sound he'd made with his ears rather than his mind, and that it had been in the same place that Sherlock's voice always is. He opens his eyes again, this time blinking until the light resolves itself into a white room. There is a shadow across his vision, a shadow with curly hair. Sherlock.

“John,” says Sherlock again, and the grip on John's hand tightens almost painfully. “You did it, John, you finally woke up. It certainly took you long enough.”

_Words,_ thinks John, as he blinks up at Sherlock. _There must be some way to form words._ The method for it eludes him, so instead he just keeps looking at Sherlock, taking in all the details that his memory had let slip away. He had forgotten the precise cut of his cheekbones and the angle of his chin against the paleness of his neck.

“It's going to be okay, John,” says Sherlock. “Now that you're awake, it's all going to be fine.”

John blinks again and manages a stiff, tiny nod. Of course it's going to be fine – he has Sherlock with him to make sure of it.

Sherlock calls for the medical staff and they fuss over John for a bit, talking to him in loud, slow voices that irritate him. 

It's not long before he starts to feel the darkness pulling at him again. His eyes slip shut and he throws them open again, gripping at Sherlock's hand, which hasn't left his once despite how difficult that has made it for the medical staff.

“It's fine, John,” says Sherlock. “Rest for a bit. I'll be here when you wake up.”

John stares at him, then manages another nod. He let his eyes shut as Sherlock adds, “And you will wake up again. I'll make sure of it.”

John can't ask for anything more.

 

Waking from a coma is a slow business. It's over a week before John is able to stay awake for more than an hour. Regaining control of his body and reminding it how to move is equally slow going. He still can't seem to manage speaking, although he is able to answer enough of the doctors' questions with head shakes and nods to let them declare him mentally healthy. He can remember everything now – everything except what had happened to him to send him into a coma in the first place, or the few hours before that. He knows how unlikely it is that he'll ever get that time back, though.

Sherlock stays with him for every hour that he's allowed. When John's awake, he fills the room with his words, filling the silences where John's responses should be as if it's natural for a conversation to have only one speaker. John wonders if that's to make John feel better about being unable to talk, or if he's just in the habit of not expecting replies after so long of just talking at John's unconscious body.

John does find he can give his input though. Sherlock, after all, has always been a master of reading someone's thoughts from their face. It's not hard for John to make it very clear what he wants to say, especially given how well Sherlock knows him.

As time passes, Sherlock becomes increasingly restless. John tries to make it clear that he doesn't need to spend all his time trapped by the same four white walls that John is becoming increasingly sick of, but Sherlock either misses what he's trying to say, or deliberately ignores it. Instead, he takes to pacing as he talks, measuring out the distance from John's bedside to the window and then back again like a lion in captivity, his hand gestures growing ever more dramatic and his temper growing increasingly short. John's convinced that the only thing keeping him from launching into a rant aimed at the medical staff is the fear that they might ban him from the hospital, and so from John.

Today, Sherlock has managed to stay seated beside John's bed for almost fifteen minutes, although his tone has become increasingly scathing. John watches as his hand clenches and then releases the arm of the chair in time with the rhythm of his sentences and wonders how long it will be before the forced tedium of a sick room drives Sherlock completely round the bend.

“...your sister said she'll be by tomorrow morning, so you might want to spend the whole day asleep. Oh, don't look at me like that, John, I know how little you enjoy her visits. It's not as if she has anything particular interesting to say.”

John raises an eyebrow, and Sherlock huffs. “My conversation involves criminals and deductions and general brilliance. Hers revolves almost entirely around the doings of her dog. There is a vast difference.”

There is a tap on the door and Lestrade sweeps in without waiting for an answer, presumably because he knows that any response from Sherlock is likely to be in the negative.

“There you are,” he says, looking straight at Sherlock and ignoring John entirely. “I've been looking for you – why do you never answer your phone? I need your help on this case. I'm pretty sure the killer is the aunt, but there's no real evidence.”

“I'm busy here,” says Sherlock. 

John rolls his eyes because sitting around badmouthing John's sister doesn't count as busy, but Sherlock's not looking at him.

Lestrade lets out a sigh and glances at John, then does a massive double-take when he sees John's eyes open and realises he's awake. John can't help it; he bursts into laughter.

“Jesus!” exclaims Lestrade. “I'm sorry, John, I didn't know you'd woken up.” He glares at Sherlock, who had also started laughing. “Some bastard didn't bother telling me.”

John manages a wave, but he can't stop laughing. It feels strange to be making a noise, giggles bubbling out of him without his control, but he likes it. He's missed it, he realises. Especially when it comes in concert with the deeper sound of Sherlock's amusement. That's worth having woken up for on its own.

“John woke up nine days ago,” says Sherlock, once he has calmed down a little.

“Well, that explains why I've not heard anything from you,” said Lestrade. “Jesus, that's brilliant news. I'm so pleased.” He steps forward and gives John's shoulder an awkward sort of pat. “The others will be as well, when I tell them.”

John smiles his thanks and gives a nod of acknowledgement.

“You see now why I will not be helping you,” says Sherlock.

John frowns. Why shouldn't Sherlock help on a case? There's nothing actually happening here, and John will probably be falling back asleep again very soon. He takes Sherlock's hand to get his attention but Sherlock does nothing more than glance at his face, then half-shake his head and look back at Lestrade.

“You'll have to scrape together the brain power to solve it yourself,” he says.

John grips tighter at Sherlock's hand but he continues to keep his eyes fixed on Lestrade rather than glancing down to see John's opinion.

It's intensely frustrating. For a moment it feels as if John is stuck in a coma again, unable to break through to communicate with the rest of the world. He makes an aggravated noise in the back of his throat and shakes Sherlock's hand.

Lestrade looks at him but Sherlock just pulls his hand out of John's grip, severing the connection between them so that John can't even express himself through that.

“Ah,” starts Lestrade, but Sherlock speaks over him.

“I am remaining here,” he says in a resolute voice.

“We really could use your help,” says Lestrade. “I don't suppose it'll take long – just look at the crime scene for me?”

“No.”

John clenches his fists with frustration. _Go,_ he wants to shout. _Just go! I'm not doing anything interesting, and we both know you're getting cabin fever here. I don't need a babysitter._ He can't convey any of that though, not when Sherlock is still refusing to even glance at him. He smacks his hand down on the bed with frustration, then winces as the sudden movement sends jolts through atrophied muscles. God damn it, he's sick of feeling trapped all the time.

“I get the impression John wants you to go,” says Lestrade. John catches his eye and nods emphatically.

“John's opinion is not relevant,” says Sherlock, and isn't that just bloody typical of the man? How dare he dismiss John like that, as if he's nothing more than a piece of furniture? “I am staying here,” adds Sherlock.

“No!” bursts out of John and it's like a dam breaking, disintegrating beneath the power of his anger and frustration. “Go!” The words don't sound like him and for a moment he thinks someone else has spoken them. His voice is clumsy and rough, his vowels too long and his consonants catching in his throat, but it is him. His voice; finally coming back to him.

Sherlock finally looks at him, grinning with pride and satisfaction. “There you are,” he says. “Finally!”

John glares at him, then wrestles with his tongue to force out, “Go and catch the-” The 'Au' sound in 'aunt' proves tricky to force out and he has to concentrate on reshaping his mouth, pushing the sound out after a brief struggle. “Aunt.”

Sherlock clutches at his wrist and beams at him, but responds to the words rather than the surprise of their existence. “It's not the aunt,” he says. “That should be obvious, even to someone with Lestrade's intelligence.” Lestrade lets out a long-suffering sigh, but is ignored. “It's probably either the-”

“No,” interrupts John, holding up his hand. Sherlock stops mid-sentence, allowing John time to marshal his thoughts into words. “Tell me when you've,” another word that he needs to pause for and take a run up to, “solved it.”

Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, clearly weighing up his options, then he jerks a nod. “Fine, then.” He stands. “I'll be back later.”

John nods with relief.

“Great,” says Lestrade. He looks at John. “Sorry to run off so quickly, but you know how it is. Now I know you're awake, I'll come for a proper visit some time.”

John nods back, trying to express his gratitude that Lestrade is taking Sherlock away and entertaining him.

“If you come tomorrow morning, you'll get to hear the latest adventures of Harry Watson's mongrel,” says Sherlock. “I'm sure you'll find that enthralling.”

John sighs. “Sherlock,” he says, and it's so familiar to say that name in that tone of voice that for a moment he's taken back to the thousand other times he's said it. Other times when Sherlock has been rude about people, or deliberately ignored manners and social niceties, or made some oh-so-logical comment that completely ignores people's feelings.

Sherlock blinks and then beams. He grips John's wrist, squeezing it for a moment, but “Goodbye,” is all he says.

“See you later,” manages John. The more words he forces out, the easier it gets, as if the pathways between his mind and his throat are being cleared of all traces of the blockage that has kept him silent this long.

After Sherlock and Lestrade have gone, he spends some time practising speaking to himself, rolling the words around his mouth until they sound as they should. When, “Don't keep body parts in the fridge,” comes out sounding exactly as it should, he falls asleep, smiling to himself.

 

Sherlock is gone for over twenty-four hours, then arrives back in John's room in the middle of the night, waking John up as he opens the door.

“Keep quiet,” he says, carefully closing the door behind him. “I'm not meant to be here.”

John rubs at his eyes with one hand, forcing himself awake. Sherlock comes forward to the bed and grasps John's wrist in greeting, then slumps into the chair, looking exhausted. John looks him over, noting that he hasn't changed clothes since he last saw him.

“The case?” he manages. He'd had a bit more practice speaking today, both to the medical staff and to Harry, who had been over-joyed to hear him speaking again and then hadn't let him get a word in edgeways as she told him all about how her dog had finally learnt how to roll over.

“Just finished,” confirms Sherlock. “I'm here to tell you about it, as arranged.”

John raises an eyebrow and glances pointedly at the clock.

“You've had plenty of sleep,” says Sherlock. “You fell asleep far earlier than normal because I wasn't here to entertain you, and so have already had seven or eight hours. I'll have to leave early, or risk getting caught here, which means you should get at least another two hours before breakfast, after which you're likely to nap again until I come back. Honestly, John, sleeping is pretty much the only thing you do. Half an hour awake now isn't going to make a great deal of difference.”

That's all very true. John is getting rather sick of sleeping, in fact - hearing about a case will be far more entertaining, even if letting Sherlock wake him up in the middle of the night like this will set a bad precedent. He raises the bed so that he can at least approximate sitting up, even if his muscles are still too atrophied to really manage doing it for themselves, then nods at Sherlock to go ahead.

Sherlock flashes a smile at him, then launches into a complicated tale that revolves almost entirely around the difference between mud from Richmond and mud from Stratford. John listens carefully, enjoying every word and wishing, more than anything, that he had been able to go along with Sherlock. _Soon,_ he thinks, even though he is well aware that he still has a long way to go before he is even close to recovered.

“...and so, I was right,” finishes Sherlock. “It wasn't the aunt.”

John thinks about that for a moment, then clears his throat. “It was sort of the aunt,” he manages. 'Aunt' comes easily this time.

Sherlock scowls. “No, it wasn't.”

“She knew about it,” points out John. “And helped, afterwards.”

“Knowing is not the same as doing,” claims Sherlock. “And she barely helped.”

“Right,” says John, suppressing a smile. “What did Greg say?”

Sherlock's scowl deepens. “That he was right all along.”

John breaks into laughter. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but his scowl disappears. “I still solved it.”

“Yeah,” acknowledges John. “And brilliantly, as well.”

Sherlock is completely mollified. He squeezes John's hand and it's only then that John realises he has been holding it the entire time he was telling the story. Sherlock's eyes follow his glance down at their hands and abruptly lets go.

“Sorry,” he says gruffly. “Force of habit. No need for it now though, I suppose. You don't need touch to know I'm here.”

“No,” agrees John. His hand feels oddly empty without Sherlock's fingers wrapped around it. “It was the first thing I felt, you know,” he says. “Before I even knew who I was.”

Sherlock is looking at John's empty hand as well. He just nods as if this is not news to him, although John doesn't see how it couldn't be.

“The only thing that was before it,” remembers John, “was your voice. For a long time that was all that got through.” He takes a deep breath. “I- Thank you, Sherlock, for coming back every time. For not giving up on me.”

Sherlock doesn't look up at him. “I did give up,” he says in a voice so low that John can barely hear it. “I didn't think you were coming back.” He reaches out for John's hand again as if he can't help himself, gripping it in both of his hands. “I only kept coming back because I didn't know what else to do. Talking to you is just what I do now, even when you're not there.”

John swallows against the lump in his throat. “I was here,” he says. “I still am.”

Sherlock nods and finally looks up at John's face. The look in his eyes is so fervent that it stops John's breath for a moment. “You are,” he says. “And you have to stay here – you can't leave again.”

John refrains from pointing out that last time it had been Sherlock who left, who jumped off a building and left John with no one to talk to, not even a silent body in a hospital room. “I'll do my best,” he says instead. He reaches his other hand over to their knot of fingers and holds on. “You too.”

The look in Sherlock's eyes says that he knows what John is thinking of, but he nods rather than acknowledge it. He looks down at their hands again and there are a few moments of silence.

“All those words,” he says eventually, just as John is wondering whether he should be coaxing Sherlock to go and get some sleep, “and yet I never managed to express the only thing I regretted not having told you.”

John stills. A conversation he'd had with his therapist years ago now comes back to him.

_There's stuff that you wanted to say, but didn't say it._

_Yeah._

_Say it now._

_No. I'm sorry. I can't._

He can still remember how much it had hurt to know that Sherlock had passed beyond being able to hear what he needed to say to him, and how impossible it'd been to put those things into words when there was no way Sherlock would ever be able to hear them.

“There are some things you can't tell an unconscious body,” he says, then adds, “or a gravestone. I tried to talk to you once or twice when you were - when I thought you were dead, but it wasn't the same.”

Sherlock meets his eyes. “I heard you once,” he confesses. “I was behind a tree.”

John feels the familiar surge of anger that Sherlock had deceived him like that, but it's muted now. It's been a long time, he thinks. Longer for Sherlock, of course, but even if John hasn't been aware of most of the last two years, it still feels as if time has passed.

“It didn't seem as if I could say certain things when you were dead and you couldn't hear them. Or I thought you couldn't,” says John. “And then, when you were alive again –“

“You remembered all the reasons you hadn't said them in the first place,” finishes Sherlock. “Yes.”

He's silent again for a while. The hushed sounds of a hospital in the middle of the night continue around them and John wonders if he should be saying them now. _You're the most important person in my life,_ and _when you were gone it felt as if the best part of me was dead as well,_ and _you were the only thing that pulled me back here_ , and at the heart of it all, those three little words that he wasn't sure Sherlock wouldn't scoff at.

“John,” says Sherlock, then he stops and frowns. “I'm not sure I can put it into words,” he says after a moment.

“There's no need-” starts John, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“Actions are easier,” he says, as if talking to himself. “Less likely to be misinterpreted.” His grip on John's hands tightens, then he leans over and pressed a dry, rough kiss against John's mouth.

John freezes in place with disbelief as Sherlock says in a hurried voice, “You see, John? You don't need to thank me for talking to you. I'll always want to talk to you.”

John pulls himself together. “And I'll always want to listen,” he says, then finally lets go of Sherlock's hands so that he can take his shoulder and pull him back in for another kiss. Sherlock makes a tiny noise of revelation in the back of his throat, then settles in to kiss John properly, cupping one hand around John's face as if he's something precious.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against John's. “Good,” he says breathlessly. “That's good. Very good.”

“Yeah,” agrees John, then giggles. “Maybe you should have tried that earlier. Kissed me awake like Sleeping Beauty.” He can feel Sherlock's puzzled frown against his skin as it forms. “Don't worry,” he says before the inevitable question. “Reference to a fairytale – not important.”

“Right,” says Sherlock, clearly dismissing the comment entirely. “Trivial nonsense, then.”

John smiles as his voice rumbles through him, the words almost pressed against his skin. _I'd follow that voice anywhere,_ he thinks, then pulls Sherlock back in for another kiss.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Follow My Voice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9118801) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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